There are two notebooks that I keep next to each other.
One is full of every hateful thing I have ever thought. Her pages are ripped, her cover worn. Every line on every page has been stained by the desolate ink of my mental discomfort. I have hated her. I punished her for being the one I choose to punish. All she knows is the evil of my words. If she was still pretty and new, I would maybe feel a whimper of guilt. But I have made her ugly to even myself.
The other book is clean and pure. I have never taken a pencil to her. She has everything in the world to offer. She could be anything to anyone. A novel of brilliance, a journal of love; her potential is only overshadowed by her purity. She is virgin to the hate in my heart and I will never show her. She is perfect now and will always be.
But someday I will no longer be. I will take her to my grave and lay her next to me. Then, when God himself comes for me I will ask for just one thing, that I may take her with me. I have protected her from the evils of her destiny on this planet. She is more pure than any human could hope to be. I will take her unto heaven and write a journal of paradise. I will describe to her a beauty, unobtainable before. And I write in her forever.
As for my other notebook? I will cremate her. And those, whom have wronged me, will choke on her ash and ink. My words that destroyed her will poison the world and she will have revenge for the life I subjected her to.
